… while she looked at him, eyes wild but gratitude in them, coughing, spluttering, huge coughs, eyes rolling back, writhing in his grasp. But the panic began again. Thrashing in his arms, she struck her head on the side of the canoe, the thuck of the collision loud in the silence of the lake. Suddenly she slipped out of his arms, and he saw, to his horror, that she had disappeared below the surface. He plunged into the water again, found her immediately, but she dragged him down with her, her arms around his neck, strangling as before in her panic. He struggled to free himself, knowing he needed air, needed to surface, or they would both sink to the bottom and drown. He managed to break loose, wrenching one arm away from her, wondering if he had broken it. Arrowed to the surface, lungs burning, gasped for air, arms heavy with weariness. Dived again, searching—where was she?—nowhere to be seen … up again, drawing deep breaths, canoe drifting away … down again, must find her, must not give up …
Later, darkness descending, he lay on the upended canoe, facedown, paddling wearily with his arms, making slow progress toward shore as the sun went down, cheek pressed against the unyielding surface of the canoe. Paddle, rest awhile, paddle. Not wanting to think of the girl, poor kid, somewhere below the water, cold and lost and alone. The lake was calm now, smooth and shiny like the lid of a coffin.
As he approached the shore, limp with exhaustion, he saw a gathering on the beach, huddled figures revealed in the whirling blue-red lights of police cruisers.
He moaned, the sound like a note of doom, as he continued paddling toward shore, knowing what was waiting for him there.
The old cop was standing at the stove waiting for the water to boil for tea when the telephone rang. He took his time going to the living room and lifted the receiver without expectations.
“Hello,” he said, clearing his throat. His cold was long gone and he blamed age for making his throat hoarse whenever he spoke after hours of silence.
“Great news, Lou,” Pickett said, the brightness of his voice a contrast to recent morning calls in the aftermath of the failed trap for Eric Poole. “They’ve booked Eric Poole out in Springfield. First-degree murder.”
The old cop’s heart fluttered like a moth in his chest.
“That girl, the runaway. He killed her at a lake there. Took her out in a canoe. Claimed she panicked and fell overboard. But when her body was recovered, they found head trauma. From a blunt instrument. Maybe the paddle, which they haven’t recovered yet.”
The lieutenant sighed wearily, heard the whistle of the kettle as the water boiled.
“You there, Lou?” Pickett asked anxiously. “You okay?”
“I’m okay,” he replied. “But Eric Poole was telling the truth, Jimmy. It was an accident. The girl wasn’t his type. That wasn’t his method of operation.…”
Long pause, Pickett’s disappointment obvious in his silence. The kettle continued to whistle.
“But it’s all over, right, Lou?” Pickett asked.
The old cop thought of that child in the white First Communion dress and the other children who died long ago in Oregon, and the girls that he knew Eric Poole had killed here in New England.
“Right,” he said. “It’s all over.” Maybe I can sleep again.
But that night he was sleepless as usual, tossing and turning, finally snatching a bit of oblivion before waking to find dawn turning the room to pewter. He knew that it was not all over, would never end. Like the phantom pain that remains after a leg is amputated.
He lit a cigarette, and waited for another day to begin.
In the cell, in the dark, the clatter and the clamor of the jail muffled at last, his thoughts were sharper than ever, and images erupted in his mind like fragments in a kaleidoscope.
Sometimes the images were of his dark girls, flashing eyes, tumbling black hair, always the hair, and his tender invasion of the places where he found tenderness in return.
There were times when he could not summon the girls but other images came: the old cop as he thrust his way out of the bushes. Still the monster, aren’t you, Eric? He pulled the blanket up to his chin, a chill rattling his bones despite the warmth of the cell. What did the old cop know about monsters? He was tired of the old lieutenant, did not want to think about him anymore.
He also did not want to think about his mother, but she emerged in his mind now and then, her long black hair tumbling over him and the odd shape of her mouth as he had last seen her.
He lay still, waiting for sleep to arrive, for the images to fade, wanting only the oblivion that sleep could summon.
But before the oblivion there came the girl. Spinning around in that motel room like a little girl dressed up in her mother’s clothes. That silly white hat. And the worst image of all, the one he dreaded but could not prevent: the way she clung to him at the last moment in the waters of the lake: Love me, Eric.
Eric touched his cheek, finding moisture there—was this what crying was like?
Later, in the deepest heart of the night, the monster also cried.
Robert Cormier (1925–2000) changed the face of young adult literature over the course of his illustrious career. His many novels include The Chocolate War, Beyond the Chocolate War, I Am the Cheese, Fade, Tenderness, After the First Death, Heroes, Frenchtown Summer, and The Rag and Bone Shop. In 1991, he received the Margaret A. Edwards Award, honoring his lifetime contribution to writing for teens.
Robert Cormier, Tenderness
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